


Hedonist in a Heatwave

by phasma



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Bottom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Established Relationship, Good god I... really wrote this huh, M/M, Riding, Strip Tease, Top Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-16
Updated: 2019-09-16
Packaged: 2020-10-19 19:46:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20662727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phasma/pseuds/phasma
Summary: Midday, in Crowley's flat, sometime shortly after Armageddidn't. A bespectacled demon can be seen lounging on a white, leather sofa. He is immobilized due to an unwavering and very un-English heatwave.Enter the waistcoat-wearing hedonist.





	Hedonist in a Heatwave

**Author's Note:**

> I don't mention shoes in this bc I'm Russian and don't wear shoes indoors, sorry friends.

Having corporeal bodies usually gives one the ability to experience the not-very-wide, but quite varied array of senses given to human bodies. Senses like smelling the weathering on first-edition books, or hearing the trapezing arpeggios composed by Debussy, or, and this was a particular favorite, tasting the nuanced sweetness in a gouda cheese made from goat's milk. It didn’t take long for Crowley to notice that for a certain angel, these indulgences were vital in making his time on Earth worthwhile. So why, Crowley wonders, does Aziraphale seem to pointedly ignore his sense of the temperature and climate around him? 

Sure, if you’d ask any human, they would most likely jump at the idea of  _ not _ having to spend the majority of winter getting into five layers of socks and three layers of pants and ten layers of shirts and jackets and coats just to avoid the bitter cold. And some might even weep tears of joy when faced with the possibility of going through summer absolutely sweat-free. But there is something to be said about the way one’s body feels lying in the sun, as the ultraviolet rays slowly lick at one’s sunscreened skin and, not unlike a marshmallow, toast the body and turn its insides viscous and comfortably broiled. 

It’s a shame, really, that sensations such as these are entirely and unknowingly lost on Aziraphale. How else would he be able to stand the unprecedented heatwave currently breathing down London’s neck in that blasted beige coat, and all the layers accompanying it? If he were sweating from it all, Crowley would have noticed it by now. That, or one of the Them would have graciously remarked on the stench in that refreshingly honest way that kids do. But since there was no stench to be smelled, Aziraphale was able to go about his new life as a rogue angel dressed like a sofa you’d find in a nursing home. 

“I can’t even look at you,” Crowley says, lounging on his white sofa in nothing more than boxers and a tank top. This was a mistake, since his couch was made of leather, and for some reason Crowley convinced himself that he wouldn’t end up sticking to it after five minutes of sitting down (he was wrong). 

Aziraphale had come over to say hello to the “children” (read: foliage), and sure enough, he’s donning his entire toast-colored ensemble as he spritzes and coos at each plant. Crowley would have done the spritzing himself, but the heat currently has him incapacitated. It seems that even though the traditional Armageddon had been thwarted some couple weeks ago, humanity continues to wish to see their world go up in flames.

“If you have an issue in the way in which I engage with your houseplants, then you can get off your arse and come water them yourself,” Aziraphale says without a hint of ill-will. He turns his attention to a dracaena plant that sits in the corner of Crowley’s lounge, and proceeds to pet its long, elegant leaves. 

“You know that’s not it.”

“Then say what ‘it’ is, dear boy.”  _ Spritz spritz. _

Crowley huffs. Sits upright. “The clothes!  _ It’s _ the clothes! The bleeding waistcoat and bowtie and stupid toast-colored pants!”

Now Aziraphale turns toward the demon. He lowers his chin, as if looking over the top of nonexistent glasses. There’s some more huffing, then Crowley runs a hand through his hair. He makes a face like he’s tasted a lemon, though not a very potent one. 

“They’re not stupid,” Crowley says. 

“Thank you.”

“But how can you be wearing them? It’s hotter than the seventh circle of hell, which believe me, is not a pleasant sort of heat. It’s this eternal steam room full of grime and mold--”

“ _ Crowley _ .” The demon shuts up. “If you’re worried that I’m somehow growing grime and mold underneath my clothes, I can assure you there’s no cause for concern.”

“Gahhh,” Crowley grumbles, and without thinking, slumps back into the sofa. He’ll regret it in exactly two minutes. “But why even go through the trouble of turning off a sense?”

“I like the clothes that I wear. I’m not going to let some turn of weather dictate whether or not I get to wear them.”

“Why not? It’s not like walking around in shorts will kill you. Unless,” Crowley sits up again, only slightly sticky, “you’re insecure? Because let me tell you, angel, there’s no--”

“Insecure?” Aziraphale interjects. He laughs, and abandons all residual attention he’d had on Crowley’s houseplants. “Heavens no! As I have said: I simply like my clothes.”

Not wanting to give him the wrong impression, Crowley offers a meek, “I like your clothes, too.” He casts his gaze to the floor, entirely missing the way Aziraphale takes stock of him.

There’s a silence that lasts a second. It’s then interrupted by a sharp intake of breath, as if an epiphany had been made. 

“But would you like me just as much, I wonder,” Aziraphale starts, “if you saw me wear something else?”

Aziraphale can’t see it, but Crowley’s eyes instantly snap up. They give the angel’s whole body a nice once-over. Crowley suspects he knows what the angel is getting at, but he wants to be sure. “Such as.”

And there it is, the confirmation that both parties have begun to play this game. Par for the role he’s decided to play, Aziraphale looks up to the ceiling in an attempt to seem bashful. He slowly presses his palms down the front of his waistcoat, fingers splayed.

“Well... I’m not quite sure. But oh, gracious me!” He brings a hand up to tug at his collar. If ever there were a competition for Subtlest Tugging of One’s Collar, Aziraphale wouldn’t even place. Not even in a local tournament. “It  _ is _ quite warm in here, isn’t it?”

Crowley freezes. He hadn’t expected Aziraphale’s ham-fisted acting to get him _ this  _ riled up _ this _ quickly. With what little motor-function he has, he nods. 

“It is.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says as he unties the silly bow around his neck. His hands then make their way to the buttons of his waistcoat. It takes eons for them to undo each one. “Much too warm,” he continues, “to be wearing bleeding waistcoats, wouldn’t you say?” A pointed look at Crowley.

“I did say that, didn’t I.” Crowley can’t fucking move. 

It takes Aziraphale long enough to finally have the waistcoat entirely off, and the buttons of his shirt at least half done. But before he divests himself entirely of his shirt, he makes quick work of getting his suspenders and trousers down. He steps out of each pant leg, then stalks towards Crowley as he returns to working his shirt buttons open. The demon remains seated, entirely at the mercy of an angel who’s now only clad in a shirt and underwear. 

This is all still relatively new territory. Crowley could probably count all the times they’ve had sex on his fingers. With just one hand. It’d only been since they’d become defectors that either of them bucked up and made any and all displays of affection overt. Displays that have quickly begun to promise that certain carnal needs will be met within the next hour or so, and last well into the night. 

But for every bought of sex the two have engaged in thus far, simply miracling eachother’s clothes away has alway been their go to. In terms of what Crowley has seen Aziraphale wearing, it’s always been all or nothing. Even in centuries long past, the most immodest the angel has ever gotten was a robe or toga. For him to be standing in just pants and, now, an undershirt has Crowley speechless and hard and adhering to the hot surface of his sofa like tar. 

“My goodness.” Aziraphale pinches his shirt at the clavicle and begins fanning myself. He looks down at Crowley through half-lidded eyes. “How ever are you standing this heat, my dear?”

Crowley swallows. “‘m not.”

“Ah, so you aren’t,” says Aziraphale. “Now that you mention it, I don’t think  _ I _ can stand it for much longer either. Might I join you?” But before he’s finished asking, and before Crowley musters enough working neurons to get his mouth to open, Aziraphale is already stradling Crowley on his ridiculous leather sofa.

Once seated atop Crowley’s lap, Aziraphale sighs as he stretches his arms past Crowley’s shoulders, hands reaching towards the back of the couch.

“Much better.” And from his spot beneath the angel, arms hanging dumbly at his side, Crowley can see the genuine satisfaction across Aziraphale’s face. The smile he’s wearing isn’t the cocky smirk he puts on when he’s pretending. It’s big and earnest. Crowley’s own is probably all that and twice as stupid-looking. 

Encouraged by Aziraphale’s sincerity, Crowley allows his hands come up and slowly start traversing up and down the angel’s thighs. Sure enough, his palms are met with a familiar softness, now with an added radiation of heat. He could bask in it.

“You really are feeling hot, eh angel?”

“Positively boiling.”

“Lucky for you,” says Crowley, snaking his hands around to cup Aziraphale’s rear and pull him forward, even closer. “I’m cold blooded.”

If it weren’t for his eyes instinctively shutting the moment Crowley kisses him, Aziraphale would be rolling them in a dramatic display of irritation right now. Instead, brings his hands to the back of Crowley’s head, raking them through the auburn hair there. Crowley, becoming increasingly emboldened by each sigh of Aziraphale’s nose, digs his fingers into the angel’s arse. The delicious juxtaposition between the overall softness of Aziraphale, and the hardness of his cock pressing against Crowley’s, has the demon’s head spinning. He breaks for air.

“Look so good,” he pants.

“So you like the outfit?”

Crowley smacks Aziraphale’s backside, then smiles. “Yes I like the bloody ‘outfit’.” 

To show his appreciation, Aziraphale responds to him with a slow roll of his hips downward. Crowley tips his head back at the sensation. Moans without abandon. Aziraphale seizes his chance, and bends his head down to begin sucking at Crowley’s exposed neck. More moaning. 

The angel kisses his way to Crowley’s ear, blowing a cool stream of air before whispering, “What say you we rid ourselves of the more… oppressive elements of our outfits for the rest of the afternoon?”

It takes a moment for Aziraphle to register hearing a  _ snap _ , because all too soon his senses are drowning in slick feeling of Crowley’s cock on his bare skin. Offhandedly, he notices that Crowley hadn’t bothered to do away with their shirts. Maybe the demon liked seeing Aziraphale in it more than he’d initially thought. Having sat up to get a good look at Crowley, Aziraphale must admit that there’s something to be said about the way the dark fabric of Crowley’s shirt clings wetly to his torso. With the newfound fear that staring at the demon below him any longer will cause him to come far too soon, Aziraphale dives back down for another kiss. 

Crowley’s chest heaves at the thrill of feeling his sweet, good-natured angel bite at his lower lip. He has to channel this spike of adrenaline somewhere, so he moves a hand from Aziraphale’s arse and to the two of their erections, coiling his long, slender fingers around them both. Aziraphale hisses, to the pride of Crowley, as the demon spreads their intermingling slick with every stroke and twist of his wrist. 

It’s when Aziraphale throws his head back in what is a beginning sign of an impending climax that Crowley stops. Squeezes the two of them just a hair too tight. He too has the threat of coming looming not too far off in the distance. But he has to be certain of one thing before he can allow himself to let go. 

“How do you want to come, angel?” Crowley says, voice low and resonant. Unrecognizable. Aziraphale, only mildly frustrated at the temporary pause in the action, rubs his thumbs across the cheeks of Crowley’s cupped face.

“With you inside me.” And not quite as instant as the last miracle, but just as arousing, Aziraphale feels the first of Crowley’s fingers prod his entrance with the aid of a cool wetness. He brings his hands up to Crowley’s hair and pulls as rocks against the skilled hand making quick work of prepping him. Crowley makes a strangled noise at the pain, and the way Aziraphale’s cock brushes against his in his movement. 

It takes what feels like a couple hundred of centuries for Crowley to quit teasing and finally get down to brass tacks by actively seeking out Aziraphale’s prostate. And sure enough, the slightest contact has Aziraphale making such licentious noises that Crowley has no choice but to get on with it, lest he burst on the spot.

With only minimal maneuvering on Aziraphale’s end, Crowley removes the hand he’d been using to prep the angel to guide his own cock towards the other’s hole. And in a slow, deliberate lowering of his hips, Aziraphale manages to seat himself fully onto Crowley’s hardness within this millenia. Without much leverage or help from his sofa, Crowley digs his feet into the floor to stay upright as Aziraphale pushes his hands against the demons shoulders to lift himself up. It takes everything in Crowley not to just slump down and succumb to the tight, addictive feeling of Aziraphale around his cock. But it’d be a cold day in hell before he’d make Aziraphale do all the work. 

Before Aziraphale can make another agonizingly slow slide down the length of Crowley’s cock, the demon does his best to cant his hips upward. Bullseye. He’s got the angel clawing at his shoulders for purchase, eyes closed at the ecstasy of being filled so fully and so perfectly. 

“You cad,” Aziraphale sighs. His statement of permission for Crowley to take the wheel. 

Were the two of them on a bed, or a desk, or anywhere but a leather couch in the middle of a heatwave, Crowley would proceed to fuck into the angel  _ thoroughly _ , and with a healthy amount of inhuman vigor. But circumstances being what they are, he opts for short, quick upward thrusts, and is grateful at Aziraphale’s attempts to match him in his bouncing. If the afternoon’s heat weren’t already apparent to the two of them, it certainly was now. The sleek sheen of sweat that usually only surfaces when either one is about to come has been present the entire time, smoothing over the slide of their bodies against one another. 

So it’s only in the way Aziraphale starts breathing in small airy hiccups that Crowley can tell he’s nearing his climax. Running a hand down Aziraphale’s entire front side once more for good measure, he takes hold of the straining cock between them and begins jerking in time with his thrusts.

“Nearly there, angel?”

“Yes, yes, just a-- _ Ah _ …”

“That’s it. You’re doing so well, so good for--” But Crowley, overcome by his own tipping point, fails to finish saying whatever sweet nothings come tumbling off his lips. He makes one last attempt to thrust into the angel as he spills his load and adds to the mess of wetness encompassing the two. Spent, Crowley slumps back into the sofa, glancing down at the stark white stain across his shirt to confirm that yes, Aziraphale did come. It’s only seconds later, after he catches his breath, does said angel follow suit and fall forward onto Crowley’s chest. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says into his neck.

“Mnm?” says Crowley.

“We’re going to be stuck to this couch forever, aren’t we?”

Crowley doesn’t want to think about it just now, but he knows that once he comes off his post-sex high, he’s going to be met with a rather disgusting mass of goo occupying his coach. That mass, for the most part, being himself.

“‘fraid so.”

Aziraphale hums. Adjusts his head so it more comfortably rests in the crook of Crowley’s neck.

“Wake me when the heatwave is over.”

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like my style of writing doesn't quite lend itself easily to smut, but as we get closer to the Fall Equinox, this premise that's been floating in my head for a while only becomes more moot.
> 
> Regardless--thank you so much for reading! I really appreciate it. And if you enjoyed it, then even better! <3


End file.
